Lew got his card from his wallet and handed it to Showalter who looked at it and handed it back.
“Florida? You’ve come a long way. What did Lee do in Florida, murder the governor?”
“He didn’t do anything in Florida,” said Lew.
“You want to show me the papers you are serving on Victor Lee?”
The man who weighed well over two hundred pounds set his legs slightly apart and blocked the way to the staircase.
“I’m not here to serve papers, just ask him a question.”
“Yes,” said Showalter slowly. “And that question is?”
“Did you kill my wife?”
“Did I…?”
“No, that’s my question for Victor Lee: Did you kill my wife?”
“You think Victor Lee killed your wife?”
“Yes.”
Showalter shook his head and thought, Stay focused, Ving. Shit happens. You’ve seen worse and more will come. Just keep your focus on the investment. Clean the apartment, rent it if you can, remember you’ve got a two-month check in your pocket and you don’t have to return the deposit.
“You know anyone looking for an unfurnished efficiency apartment?” Showalter asked.
“Maybe, a security guard at Mentic who’s retiring, looking for something small, month to month.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” said Showalter. “What’s his name?”
He had a pocket-sized leather-bound notebook in his hand now.
“Can I take a look at it first?” Lew said, looking at the door.
Showalter tapped the notebook against his leg and said, “Why not.”
He opened the door and they walked in. A single wooden-floored room with a small bed against a wall, a desk and chair and a refrigerator and sink. Only one wall had windows, two of them looking down at the street. On the opposite wall was an open door to a small bathroom. The only thing on the walls was a small framed painting of a rainy empty city street at night, office buildings looming like black shadows, the only spot of light coming from a tiny window in one of the shadow buildings.
The room was also clearly and completely clean, sparse and orderly. The room seemed familiar to Lew. He knew why.
“As you can see, the apartment comes furnished,” said Showalter, walking to the bathroom. “Including towels. But if the tenant has his or her own furniture, we can clear everything out.”
Lew moved to the desk and opened the middle drawer. The only thing in it was an unframed and folded university degree.
“Okay if I take this?” Lew asked, holding up the degree.
“I don’t-” Showalter began.
“Owen Keen,” Lew cut in. “The man who might be interested in renting. His name is Owen Keen.”
“Owen Keen,” Showalter said, writing the name in his notebook. “I’ll give him a call. Mentic Pharmaceuticals, you said?”
“Yes, can I take the painting too?” Lew asked, tucking the folded sheet of paper carefully into his pocket.
Showalter looked at the dark noir canyon on the wall. “Sure,” he said, moving to the window. “You want to give Mr. Keen a call and tell him?”
“I will,” said Lew, moving to the painting and taking it from the wall.
“Is that valuable?” asked Showalter, glancing back at Lew. “If it is…”
“In money? No. I don’t think so.”
“I’ll be damned,” Showalter said, now looking down at the street. “He’s back.”
Lew, framed painting tucked under his arm, was at Showalter’s side. There were plenty of spaces on the street. The gray Kia SUV was pulling into one of them directly across the street.
“Changed his mind,” said Showalter with disappointment.
Victor Lee, lean, shoulders slightly slumped, got out of the car, adjusted his glasses and started across the street.
“No,” said Lew. “He forgot to take something with him. He’s coming back for it.”
“What?” asked Showalter.
“This,” said Lew, holding up the painting. “All right if I give it to him?”
“He can have it,” Showalter said.
Victor Lee looked up at the apartment window. He stopped. He saw two figures, sun glinting, hiding their faces. His head dropped. He turned and moved back to the SUV. Lew moved quickly past Showalter. As Lew went through the door, Showalter called, “Call Keen, right away, okay?”
9
Man said it was urgent,” said Ames.
He was sitting at Lew’s desk, blinds open, sun dancing in dust, sending a yellow band across the floor. Outside beyond the Dairy Queen lot, a sports car whoomed up a few gears and shot away.
“How each of us sees urgency is a matter of perspective,” Ann Horowitz said. “What is urgent to this man may not be to Lewis.”
She was in her office on Bay Street, a patient sat in the closet-sized waiting room beyond her wooden door. Ann was purposely keeping the patient, Stephen Mullex, waiting beyond his appointed time. Mullex should complain about his hour being cut short. She wanted him to complain, to assert himself. If he didn’t complain, she would make that the issue of the session.
“Yes, ma’am,” Ames said evenly.
“One man might well say he has an emergency, and mean it and sound like it, screaming, crying, when his car won’t start and he will be late for a tuna match.”
“Tuna?”
“Tennis,” Ann corrected herself, wondering what, if anything, her slip might mean. Age? The ghost of Freud?
“Another man might call the police from his home and calmly announce that his family was being murdered by two men with axes downstairs and add that there was no hurry because everyone was dead.”
“Were they?” asked Ames.
“Hypothetical,” Ann answered. “How would you react?”
“Find a gun, knife, chair, lamp and go down after the guys with axes,” he said. “By the time the police got there, they’d all be dead.”
“Unless he killed his family,” said Ann.
“Yes, ma’am. That’s possible. If Lewis calls you, would you please have him call me at the Texas Bar and Grille. I left a message on his sister’s phone, but he hasn’t called back.”
“I do have another number,” she said.
Ames said nothing, waited.
“He asked me not to give it out. It’s his brother-in-law’s cell phone.”
“Ma’am.”
She looked at the digital clock on her desk. The numbers were large. The time was ten minutes after the hour. Stephen Mullex had been kept waiting long enough. Ann gave Ames the number of the phone in Franco Massaccio’s tow truck.
“I can be disbarred for betraying this confidence,” she said.
“You’re not a lawyer. You’re a psychologist.”
“Then getting disbarred won’t hurt my career, will it?”
